


Red Roses, Paper Planes

by em_gray



Series: AU fic challenge [12]
Category: The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue Series - Mackenzi Lee
Genre: Alternate Universe - yeah, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Childhood Friends, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Magic, Murder, Suicidal Thoughts, it's a lil cheesy but very well, it's a very vibe-y fic, someone dies but he gets better!, wow did i intend for that death scene to get in there? definitely not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:20:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27099511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/em_gray/pseuds/em_gray
Summary: I was six the first time I saw him.I’d been practising the violin, getting frustrated because I couldn’t get it right. I’d put the instrument aside, opened up my bedroom window and leaned outside, taking deep breaths as I looked over the river. It was a small stream, about seven feet wide but powerful enough that if you’d fall in, you’d drown without doubt. There were rocks in there and the current was so fast, not to mention the whispers of magic in the waters - the warning tales of those who lost their lives to it piling up, always concluding; never go too near to it.
Relationships: Henry "Monty" Montague/Percy Newton
Series: AU fic challenge [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640491
Comments: 17
Kudos: 25
Collections: TGGTVAV AU Challenge Fics





	Red Roses, Paper Planes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pinstripedJackalope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinstripedJackalope/gifts), [goldenthunderstorms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenthunderstorms/gifts).
  * Inspired by [lovers' desire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25278139) by [goldenthunderstorms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenthunderstorms/pseuds/goldenthunderstorms). 



> Hello hello!! At long last, here's round 12 of our challenge fic series! For this one I went with "only seeing each other six months a year" from the amazing and heartbreaking lovers' desire. Hope you enjoy!

I was six the first time I saw him.

I’d been practising the violin, getting frustrated because I couldn’t get it right. I’d put the instrument aside, opened up my bedroom window and leaned outside, taking deep breaths as I looked over the river. It was a small stream, about seven feet wide but powerful enough that if you’d fall in, you’d drown without doubt. There were rocks in there and the current was so fast, not to mention the whispers of magic in the waters - the warning tales of those who lost their lives to it piling up, always concluding; _never go too near to it._

I loved the river. I loved falling asleep listening to its roar and rumbling. I loved hanging over it, wind pulling on my hair as I watched it scrape the lower floors of our apartment complex, rising and falling with the tide, sometimes close enough I could put my hand into it, sitting from my windowsill. I loved looking into the distance, where the stream disappeared between the buildings, cutting the city in half and continuing far beyond our walls. I loved to fantasize about where it went - about following it, all the way to the ocean. I loved imagining the ocean. I couldn’t imagine anything more beautiful.

So there I was, leaning on the windowsill and looking out over the river, when I heard someone crying. I frowned and looked up. It seemed to come from across the river, the window across mine. It was open, but I couldn’t see anyone. Carefully, I called out, “Hello?”

The crying halted on a choked sob. I leaned in closer, and I thought I could still hear sniffling. The river was low this time of year, its sound muted, so I was fairly certain I wasn’t imagining it.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

Hesitation. “...I’m fine,” a thin, wobbly voice came, still out of view.

“You don’t sound fine.”

I waited. I was starting to believe he’d left, but then there was a shuffle, and someone appeared in the window frame. The boy was my age, with blond hair and chubby cheeks and eyes red from crying. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, glancing down at the water. “My father always says I should stay away from the river,” he said.

“It’s perfectly safe. I’m here all the time.”

He looked up at me, studying me. “Who are you?”

“I’m Percy. You?”

“Monty.”

“Why are you sad, Monty?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it.” He rested his head on his arms, leaning on the windowsill. “Is, um… The music I always hear, is that you?”

“Oh, the violin?” I picked up the instrument and showed it to him. “Yeah. I’m not very good, though. I haven’t been playing for very long.”

“Can I hear some?”

I sat down on the window frame, swinging my legs over and placing my feet on the windowsill, knees pulled up. It was an awkward position, but I didn’t really care. Monty was looking at me intently, wiping some stray tears from his big blue eyes. I put my fingers in the right position, frowning with concentration, and pulled the bow over the strings.

I played him the song I’d been practising. I still didn’t like how it sounded, but I barely got any notes wrong, and Monty watched with unwavering attention. As the last note faded from the air, carried away by the sound of the river, he stood up and clapped. I laughed.

“That was great,” he said.

“I missed a few notes.”

“”You don’t need those.”

I snorted. “If you say so.”

“I really liked it,” Monty said. He’d seemed to have completely forgotten about whatever he was upset about. “I’d love to hear you play more.”

“Well, I live here, and I want to learn to play the violin as well as my dad could, so I’ll be practicing a lot more.”

Monty grinned at me, displaying a missing front tooth. “I can’t wait. Oh!” His eyes widened. “I found a really cool bug earlier today. Do you want to see it?”

I nodded, and he ran off, returning a bit later with a transparent box. It was too far away for me to be able to see it, but it didn’t matter - we started talking and we didn’t stop.

And so it started. The first thing I always did after coming home from school was throwing open my window and yelling his name. Sometimes he wasn’t home yet. Then I folded a paper plane and threw it across, and spent the remaining time impatiently waiting for him to arrive.

We became experts at folding and throwing the paper planes. We perfected the designs, our aim improved—although a great many were still lost to the river—and got increasingly creative as to what silly things to doodle or write on them. We gave them our personal little signatures—me, a small violin, him, a little blue bird. I kept all the ones I got. I didn’t tell him that—some, I put up against the outer wall of my room, so he couldn’t accidentally catch a glimpse, others, I hid in a cardboard box under my bed.

I wasn’t exactly sure why I decided to put a plane in either place. Some were just better for staring at at night, when sleep wouldn’t come, and others were better for pulling out on sad days, to flip through, to make me smile through the tears.

Personal. Secret. Just for me.

We never ran out of things to talk about. I didn’t have many friends growing up, but I did have Monty, and even if every kid at school suddenly wanted to be my friend, I’d still prefer to be with Monty. We never grew bored of each other. As kids, we played pirates and adventurers and treasure hunters, always separated by the river but never far away. As we got older, it became more talking than indulging in fantasy words, but the laughter never left.

I always practiced the violin, sitting on that windowsill, even when he wasn’t there.

I only saw him six months a year. In autumn and winter, the river rose to our roof and I couldn’t open my window without risking flooding the entire building. Some nights I stayed up late, pulling aside the curtains and peering through the dark water, trying to catch a glimpse of that window across between the dark shadows of fish passing by. Sometimes, I took out a flashlight and shone outside, turning the lights on and off.

One night, another light replied.

We learned morse code. Our conversations weren’t as lengthy as they were in summer and spring, but I was so glad I could still talk to him. We both looked forward to when the river would fall back, sinking down an inch each day, until we could see over the water from our windows and waved at each other like mad through the tiny crevice.

We discovered the trick with the water when we were eight. It had a simple reason: I ran out of paper, but I had some ideas for drawings that I really wanted to show him. So I searched the house and found ink and a paintbrush, and drew on the outside wall next to the window.

“Won’t your aunt and uncle get mad?” Monty asked worriedly.

I shook my head. “No one ever sees this side of the house. And the river will wash it away in winter, anyway.”

I was less sitting on the windowsill and more hanging off of it, dangling over the ravine with my legs still inside, one foot hooked under my bedframe and the other behind a table leg in order not to fall. I pursed my lips in concentration, drawing black lines on the uneven wall. “There!” I said. I moved back to safer ground, revealing the bird I’d drawn to Monty.

He laughed. “That looks weird.”

“You want to try drawing on these walls?”

Monty’s smile faded. “Are you sure no one will find out, though? What if the water won’t wash it away when the ink has dried?”

He made a point there. I put the brush down and scooped up some water from the river, splashing it against the drawing. It didn’t budge. My heart sank.

“What are the odds someone would accidentally see this?” I still tried optimistically. I looked over to Monty for support, but he was gaping. I followed his eyes back to my drawing and my mouth fell open as well.

It was _moving_. It was as if the bird was a living thing, trapped in the concrete, trying to pull out of the pale yellow brick.

“Put more water on it!” Monty said breathlessly, so I did. Every drop against the stone seemed to ease the thing’s struggle for freedom, until it fell out entirely. I barely caught it before it ended up in the water.

It was the size of a crow, its feathers the same soft yellow as the wall, and it was _alive_. It twitched in my cupped hands, fluttering its wings to shake off some droplets, then hopped on its feet. It canted its head, beady black eyes looking up at me.

“Are… Are you seeing this?” I gasped. Monty nodded, wide-eyed. The bird turned around, now looking at him. Then it spread its wings, and flew away.

Monty and I were practically bouncing at this discovery, crashing through our respective houses looking for more drawing supplies. Soon we were bringing all sorts of wall paintings to life, figuring out what worked and what didn’t.

You could create practically anything as long as it wasn’t too complicated. Inanimate objects worked best and lasted the longest. Plants and animals worked, too, but they faded the quickest, and could stray the least far from the river. Those two things caused our creations to vanish - time, and distance from the water.

I drew some goldfish and kept them in a bowl filled with river water.

We became quite skilled artists, and we never grew bored of our magic trick. We kept it a secret, just between us—we never spoke of it during our months apart, and when we were reunited, we instantly busted out the painting sets and spent hours drawing everything we could think of on the wall.

Birds were our favorite subject. We could send them flying across the river, to greet the other.

We were thirteen the next time I found him crying.

I was practising the violin, an echo of our meeting. I thought he wasn’t home yet—he told me he was attending a party, which might take a long time. It was early September and the river had started to rise. As much as I loved it—the power of it, the magnificence, the steadfastness and surety of the tide—it made me sad, because I knew I’d have to miss Monty for another six months.

But when I put down my instrument to rearrange the sheet music, I heard the faint sobs. I paused, listening intently for a few minutes. “Monty?” I then called.

The sobs were smothered, quiet for a while. I waited.

“I’m here,” a trembling voice came.

I dropped everything I was doing. “I didn’t think you’d be back so soon. I…”

He appeared through the window. He really had been crying, tears still in his eyes, face blotched. Then I noticed something else: a dark purple mark on his temple.

“Monty?” I asked. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“You’re hurt.” I reached out a hand, though I knew we were too far apart.

“It’s all right.”

I didn’t know how to continue on that. I shifted on the windowsill, pulling both feet onto it. “How was the party?”

“Eh, you know.” He sniffed, wiping his tears away with his sleeve. “Same old.”

I watched him as he climbed onto the windowsill as well. Mirror images, the two of us, two sides of a moonlit stream.

“I, uh,” he continued after a while. Long pause. I waited. “I kissed someone.”

I didn’t reply.

“It was… It…” He pulled in a shaky breath, eyes away from me. “It was another boy.”

“...Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you… like it?”

He swallowed, still looking at his feet. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Oh.” Then, “Okay.”

Finally, he looked at me. “Okay?”

I nodded. “Okay.”

I could almost see the weight being lifted off his shoulders. He huffed, a half smile forming on his face. He nodded as well. “Okay.”

We shared a moment in comfortable silence. Then, I suddenly jumped up. “Wait here.”

I didn’t give him a chance to reply, just went rummaging through my room. School had started again recently and we hadn’t had as much time as we did in the summer, so it took me some time to find my painting set. When I did, I sat down on the windowsill again, securing myself with feet hooked around furniture not to fall, then started painting on the outer wall.

I could hear the smile in his voice. “What are you doing?”

“It’s a surprise.”

Five minutes passed, and my drawing was complete. I’d gotten much better since that first doodle of a bird I’d brought to life. I put my brush aside, then scooped up some water from the river. Carefully I guided my drawing as it came to life, ruffling its feathers and shrugging off the droplets. It hopped in my hand, turning to face me, little head canted. I turned, showing my creation to Monty. Then I lowered my hand slowly, giving the bird a little boost. It took the hint and spread its wings—just a few beats, and it was landing in Monty’s hand.

It dropped the flower I’d drawn him with. Monty looked at me in question.

“It’s for you,” I said.

Monty smiled, a brilliant smile, wiping the final tears from his eyes. He put the flower in his hair, the little bird still on his knuckles. He lifted the creature up, then, holding my eyes all the while, pressed a soft kiss to its head. “That’s for you,” he whispered.

I couldn’t stop thinking about that night. Monty had confided more in me about what had happened: he’d enjoyed kissing the other boy, but the latter had gotten cold feet and told everyone Monty had forced it. It made me so, so angry.

But there wasn’t much I could do about it.

I still waited for him, every day before and after school. Somehow, my time with him became even more precious. I cherished our little inside jokes and that soft, endeared smile of his. I laid awake at night, in wonder about how similar the color of his eyes was to the brilliant blue of the river.

Whenever I waited for him, I drew. Doodles on paper planes and artwork on the walls around my windows, bringing them to life. Plants and animals, birds and butterflies, little ships to put on the river and watch them sail away.

But more than anything else, I drew flowers. They were always for him.

Monty was fourteen when he was sent to boarding school. It was upstream, several miles away from where we lived. It gripped me like a hand of ice around my heart—our six months apart suddenly became ten. No more morse code conversations, except for two weeks around Christmas, maybe—no more trying to catch a glimpse of him, no incredible joy to share with him when the river fell and we could see each other again.

That fall and winter were the worst. I missed him more than I’d ever missed anything. I unfolded and refolded the paper planes, going over his words and his drawings. I drew a lot more than I usually did in winter, too—at one point I found myself trying to catch his likeness on paper, and then again and again, until I perfected his dimples and his eyes shone like I remembered them. These drawings went in the cardboard box under my bed. I didn’t want anyone to see them.

I didn’t know why, but for some reason, it felt like they revealed too much.

I kept drawing boats as well. I read book after book about nautical travel, about pirates and adventurers and all those who braved the open waters.

It fascinated me.

It was late March when I first opened up my window again. Weak rays of sunshine fell over the high rooftops, making the water glint like precious stones. So there I sat—on the windowsill, as always, violin in one hand and bow in the other, and I practiced and I imagined he’d be home soon to hear it.

It was on such a day that I noticed something peculiar. A soft _tink!_ pulling me from my concentration. I frowned, putting the instrument down, and then I saw it—an empty bottle, stuck on the rock between our windows. I reached out and with great effort, I grabbed it. I found the bottle to be not empty at all.

Scrunched up inside sat a single paper plane.

I couldn’t get it out fast enough. My hands trembled and I dropped the bottle, almost ripping the paper as I unfolded it. My heart leapt as I read the first two words.

_Hello, darling._

I figured out the rhythm. Monty mostly sent them in the evening, and they arrived by my bedside window usually around nine o’clock. I drew a little net and almost fell in half a dozen times trying to get it suspended between our windows. But it was effective—it caught all the bottles floating by. They came once or twice a week, all in that familiar handwriting, all silly anecdotes and doodles he’d made in class.

 _You’d hate it here_ and _I was late again_ and _The food is only tolerable on Tuesdays._

And sometimes, _I miss you._

There was no way for him to know his letters were being received. There was no way for me to send him a message in return.

The incredulous smile on his face when he arrived home and found me waving around his letters became one of my fondest memories.

Two years went by like that. Monty wrote and wrote and I read and kept all of his letters. I waited with great impatience when the water started falling back, every day one too many to wait for his letters to arrive again.

We were sixteen when in March, I was putting up the net. I’d devised a clever mechanism to do that without risking drowning every time. I was excited, reorganizing the older letters and I already had a new box ready for the ones I was yet to receive.

Then I heard shuffling in the room across.

The window was open, as the maid always aired the room after winter as soon as the river was low enough. And I did know it was being kept tidy in his absence—but that was usually in early mornings. Still, I might’ve imagined it.

More footsteps. A fall onto the bed.

“Anyone there?” I called.

It was quiet for minutes. I didn’t dare to move, for fear I’d miss a whisper. Then, finally, came a very weak voice, “No.”

I almost tripped over myself in my rush to climb onto the windowsill. “Monty?”

Another long silence. Then, a mumbled, “Hello, darling.”

“You’re back!” I blurted. I could barely believe my luck. “But how– why–?”

More stumbling. Shadows on the wall. Then, he came into view.

And my joy disappeared like snow in the sun.

He looked terrible. His face was bruised, one eye swollen shut, a collage of blue and purple. He pulled a chair closer and sat down, arms folded on the windowsill. He didn’t look at me.

“What happened?” I asked quietly.

Monty shrugged, and I could swear I saw him wince. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters! You’re hurt.”

He didn’t reply.

“Monty, please. Talk to me.”

He took his time. His eyes wandered over the river, catching on the little net I put there. A half smile. “That how you receive my messages, is it?” When I didn’t fall for the bait, he sighed. “I was expelled.”

“What’d you do?”

“Well. I had a bit of a gambling enthusiasm. Also, I needed to get those bottles I sent you somewhere.”

My heart dropped.

He caught my reaction. “Don’t worry, I was just kidding. About the bottles. The real reason…” He sighed. “Remember that boy I wrote to tell you about?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I had a little letter exchange going with him as well. And they… found out about it.” He pulls up his shoulders. “And they told my father.”

It clicks in my head. Years of reading between the lines, of interpreting clouds of panic in his eyes, of studying that smile he doesn’t mean—and it all adds up.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” Monty shrugged. “He wasn’t very happy about it.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t change it. Any of it.”

“I know.”

“I don’t–” He sounded near tears. “I can’t– If he… If he could beat this out of me, I would’ve let him long ago.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Monty.”

He didn’t reply.

We were quiet for a long time, the rustling of the river the only sound to be heard. Fading imprints of flowers on my wall.

“I wish I were dead.”

That made me look up. Monty pointedly avoided my eyes, but I could tell from his body language that he knew I was watching him.

The world suddenly seemed a hollowed out version of itself.

“Do you mean that?” I asked.

“Yes. I don’t know. Maybe.”

It took me a while to gather my wits. I’d been so excited to see Monty again, but… not like this.

Never like this.

“Don’t be,” I said. “Don’t want to be dead. Here.” I grabbed a sheet of paper and a pencil. “I’ll give you five reasons to not want to be dead.”

Monty was home more after that. He didn’t want to talk as much in the beginning, but we kept each other company. He listened to me play and watched me as I drew flower after flower, each more brilliant than the one before. He let me talk about my days at school, smiling that little absent-minded smile. And it got better—he cheered up, talked more, didn’t get lost in thought as much.

He didn’t mention wanting to die again. But I knew it wasn’t quite off his mind.

It wasn’t off my mind, either. I laid awake at night, thinking of that conversation, of the bruises and the absent look in his eyes, the way his every movement made him flinch.

I just wanted to get him out of there.

So I kept drawing boats. Mighty three-masters and houseboats and barges. I memorized their structures and shapes, what knots they needed for the sails, what storms they could take.

I kept dreaming of the ocean.

Not just for Monty. I’d been diagnosed with epilepsy a few months prior and my aunt and uncle were giving me a hard time over it. Truthfully I’d never felt completely at home with them—my father died when I was but a year old and I’d never known my mother, so it fell upon them to take care of me.

And they did. In a way.

I poured over my sketches. Ships to brave the tide and anything we’d—I mean, anything _I’d—_ might need, about compasses and maps and stars you couldn’t even see from my window, as the city was too bright. I read about a world beyond our river-cut city, so wide and full and unexplored.

In my head, the ocean became synonymous with freedom.

We were eighteen.

I was in my room, sketching at my desk, window open. It was September and the river rushed by just a few inches below my windowsill. I was scared of what winter would bring. Scared of not seeing Monty for six months and not knowing if I’d see him again when the tide fell back.

Dusk fell over our city like a weightless sheet, splattered with stars, and warm lights were lit to fend off the dark. Monty wasn’t home.

Or so I thought.

I heard the door of his room fall closed, then a _thump!_ I stopped my scribbling, listening intently. Footsteps, shuffling, motion. Two people. A smothered moan.

_Oh._

I bit my lip, trying to ease my temper. I was long since past the days of spending hours perfecting charcoal drawings of Monty’s face, not understanding why it felt so important to get the curve of his cheek just right. I understood fully well how deeply I cared for him, which made living next to his bedroom a pain. I put my pencil down and stood up, raising a hand to close my window.

Then I heard the door again.

“... _Henry?_ ”

A gasp in surprise. Sounds like someone falling. Monty, out of breath. “Father.”

My heart stopped.

There was more shuffling, then footsteps, then the door again. Monty’s hook-up fleeing the scene. Probably another boy, judging by Monty’s father’s tone—and again, in the low sneer when he said, “In my office.”

I threw my window open, climbing on the windowsill and trying to see as much as I could, but they were out of sight. Footsteps. The door.

Then, nothing.

My heart was racing. For a long moment I just stood there, panicking but frozen, staring at the opposite window.

_Monty’s in trouble. Monty’s going to get hurt. Monty–_

The wind picked up. A storm was gathering in the air, making the river unruly. It was darker than the night sky, stirring uneasily, ready to lash out and live up to the folk tales, a threat to those foolish enough to consider crossing.

I waited. I waited and I paced around because what else could I do? A million things went through my head— _Monty Monty Monty what’s happening he’s in danger and he has no one–_

Wrong. He has me. But I’m on the wrong side of the river with no means to get across.

My gaze landed on the brushes on my desk.

The decision was made all at once. Years of fantasizing and planning hypothetically—and in that one moment, it was done. This wasn’t the first time Monty got in trouble with his father, but something was different. I could feel it. And so much time had passed and he still wasn’t back and–

The wind pulled on my hair as I leaned out of the window. Even the river sensed something was amiss—a reflection of the panic in my veins, making it hard to think clear, waiting and watching as if it was still deciding if it was an ally or an enemy. Thunder rumbled and the first raindrops fell. The whole world was screaming at me to _do something_.

And I would. I’d waited so long.

It was time.

I wet the brush in the river before dabbing it in the paint. I think it was blue but it was hard to tell in the light. Then, I painted: a rectangle, right underneath the windowsill. It was infinitely simpler than anything I’d ever drawn, yet somehow I knew it would work. Intention mattered when bringing drawings to life, and I’d never been so intent on anything in my life.

I put the brush behind my ear and scooped up water with both hands, not able to bring this drawing to life fast enough. And when it did, it did so slowly—Monty was in there and he was hurt and I was running out of _time–_

When the bridge was about halfway over the river, it grew the rest of the way on its own. No wonder—with it being this late in the season and the storm in the air, water kept splashing over the wood. It was thin and unsteady, trembling every time a wave or firm breeze struck it, but this was it.

This was my only chance to help Monty.

I pulled myself upright, clinging to the curtains and the wall. Right under my feet, the stream whirled, faster than ever. Wind pulled on my clothes and threatened to knock me over, and the plank was slippery.

I was one wrong step away from the river’s mercy.

I pointed my gaze onward. I thought only of Monty. I put a few steps forward, holding onto the wall for as long as I could.

When I had to let go, I wasn’t even halfway my makeshift bridge. The storm was a living thing, dragging at me from all sides, the swirling of the river deafening. But I put one foot in front of the other. I was this close to Monty’s window–

A particularly strong gust of wind rolled over the water, upstream, and hit me full in the chest. I lost my balance, tipping backward, trying to grab onto anything but there was nothing there—I replaced my foot to steady myself—I slipped–

The water was freezing cold. For a moment I was paralyzed, gasping and then coughing when that brought swallows of water into my lungs. I flung my arms around, kicking my legs in a readily decided battle with the current. Then, my back hit something and the air was almost knocked out of me again. I turned and grabbed onto it—it was my own bridge.

Muscles still tensed up from the cold, I dragged myself onto it. I was shivering and could barely feel my hands. Monty’s window was all the way across and I could barely move–

Suddenly, I felt something, pressing against my palm. I looked down. Right beneath my fingertips bloomed a rose. When I sat up on my knees, lifting my other hand, I found more flowers there. They were growing all around me—vines with every flower I’d ever drawn and so much more. From every droplet that fell off me and hit the wood they bloomed, their colors bright even in this rainstorm.

Then it hit me.

The water.

For years it had brought my imagination to life. Plants and animals, birds and butterflies, little ships to put on the river and watch them sail away. And always— always, all of them were for him. To cheer him up and to make him smile and to gift him with to brighten his day. Every flower was another confession I didn’t dare to put into words. Every bird I sent across to share my true feelings for him in song, every ship I put on this river with a silent promise of _This could be us. We could run away._

I didn’t need to draw them anymore. It was a part of me.

On all fours, I crawled across the bridge. The flowers followed me, birds sitting on my shoulders, butterflies dancing around my head. I fell in through his window, cushion of flowers forming before I’d even landed. I climbed to my feet.

His room was abandoned. In the dusk I could only see the outlines of furniture: a desk, a chair, a few closets, a bed still made. Something poking from underneath it.

As plants sprung up beneath my feet, I walked over and knelt down. It was a box— a cardboard box, unobtrusive and worn. I lifted off the lid, and my mouth fell open.

Inside were paper planes. _My_ paper planes, that I’d sent across over the past twelve years, full of drawings and words and the odd poem here and there. There were _so many_. They went back all the way until the beginning. He’d kept them. All of them.

Just like I had.

And in that moment, I knew. I knew we had the same reason to.

I’d pulled all the planes from the box when I noticed the bottom sticking out. I dug a finger under a corner and found that it gave way easily. It was a hidden compartment, I realized. Beneath it was hidden a single paper plane.

My heart pounded as I flattened the folds. My own handwriting.

_Five reasons not to be dead._

I jumped to my feet. The flowers behind me were already filling up half the room. _I have to find him. I have to find him._ But where? I darted to the door, into the hallway, but it went on in both directions, so many doors, and I didn’t hear a sound.

A bird that had been sitting on my shoulder took flight. It was a little blue one, of the type that I always sent to carry Monty messages and flowers. The creature flew to my left. It disappeared around the corner, then, a moment later, it returned, landing on my palm. It tilted its head, waiting expectantly.

“Okay,” I whispered. I gave it a little boost and it took off. “Show me the way.”

I ran through seemingly endless hallways. The bird always made sure I could keep up, sometimes returning, as I raced after it. Flowers grew in my paces, crawling between the floorboards and up the walls, and flying beside me were dozens of butterflies and birds and paper planes. Parts of me, all headed for the same destination.

I knew I’d arrived when I found the blue bird sitting in a doorway. The door was ajar and the creature looked up at me. My heart sank.

My hand trembled as I lifted it to the knob. It creaked quietly as I pushed open the door, the plants and creatures behind me coming to a stop, all of us holding our breath. A study came into view—a desk and a chair and book cases, a carpet on the floor and–

My heart stopped.

“Monty!”

I dropped to my knees beside him. He lay motionless on the rug, face bruised and head tilted aside, displaying the dark spot between his golden hair. A desk corner behind him, smeared with red.

A small pool of blood around his head.

“Oh my god, Monty.” And it didn’t feel real—it was a dream, because I’d never been this close to him, and it was a nightmare, because I’d never been this far away—I was half convinced my hands would go right through him when I reached out, but they didn’t. I felt his curls under my fingertips as I gently pulled his head onto my lap, trailing his jaw, watching for signs of life. I held the back of my hand to his lips and waited for his breath to brush against it, but it didn’t happen. I put two fingers to his neck and waited for the thump of a heartbeat, however frail—however small and irregular, however despairing—as long as it wasn’t hopeless.

But it didn’t happen.

“Monty.” A sob escaped me. I was trembling, throat closed up, vision blurring with tears. “Monty, no. Please.” My voice broke.

I pulled him closer toward me, trying to rouse him, watching for a response, lying to myself about how cold his skin was. Lying to myself about how delicate he looked, so hurt, inanimate as a static image, already decaying. So small and impossibly beautiful, even like this. My Monty—he’d been the sun, so warm and full of life and laughter, and for a second I’m convinced this is a fake, this is someone else, because it can’t be—this can’t be–

I sobbed, rubbing at my eyes with one hand, the other arm used to hold him close to me. “No,” I whispered, I whined, I moaned, feeling Monty’s passing like a physical pain. I’d take having my heart literally ripped out over this. “No,” I mumbled again, and then, in shouting, “ _No!_ ”

Around him, roses bloomed. The room filled up with them, the river granting him a funeral, a grave, and I, the only mourner. I hugged him to my chest, cradling him, running a hand through his hair and whispering into his ear. All the things I never got to tell him.

I’m not sure how long I sat there. The birds had landed between the flowers, watching us with unmistakable sadness in their eyes. After what felt like forever, I gently put him down again between the flowers. Immediately, they curled around his arms. They loved him even in death.

Maybe I could convince myself he was sleeping.

I touched a hand to his jaw, a ghost of a touch. I swallowed. If this was the last I ever saw of him, I had to say it. I had to let him know, even if he never would. It was the only way for me to ever possibly find closure.

I bent down, and ever so lightly, I pressed a kiss to his lips. Soft. Lingering. I pulled back. Still but a breath away, I whispered, “I love you.”

I pulled away and, carefully disentangling my limbs from the vines, I stood up. I granted myself one last look before turning my back on him. The room was covered in flowers—if anything, my darling Monty would have the most beautiful grave in history. They were everywhere and I couldn’t reach the door without stepping on them.

My drawings, my dreams, my desires, all crushed.

I heard a gasp.

I almost tripped over myself as I turned, and then again when I saw. I didn’t believe my eyes.

“Monty?!”

But it was real. He was sitting up, looking bewildered at the flowers covering him, yelping when the birds hopped onto his arms and tried to affectionately peck at his ears, freezing up as a whole swarm of butterflies landed on him. He very carefully tried batting them away enough so he could look around again—at the mess of the room, then at me. His jaw dropped. “Percy?”

“ _Monty, oh my god_ ,” I dropped to my knees beside him and, only just giving all the creatures enough time to escape in order not to get crushed, wrapped him into a hug. I squeezed so tightly I didn’t notice how badly I was trembling until I let go again to look him in the eye. My voice cracked. “I thought I’d lost you.”

He gaped at me. “I– I don’t understand. You’re _here_ . And all of this–” he looked around, “what _is_ this? And I– _ow_ .” He winced, a hand going to his head and returning with a smear of blood on it. His eyes widened. “I’m _bleeding_.”

“Monty, a moment ago, you were _dead_.” Still, I lifted a hand to look. I tried to wipe them on my sleeves first as I was still soaked, but it was useless. I parted his hair and examined the injury.

An injury that disappeared under my touch.

I pulled back, jaw dropping. Monty stared at me, a little anxious. “What? What is it?”

“It’s gone. The wound.” My hands were trembling. “It just disappeared right under my eyes.”

“It– _what_ ?” He touched a few fingers to the spot again, and frowned. “ _Huh._ ”

We stared at each other in disbelief for a long time. The birds settled around us and were chittering merrily.

“ _I don’t understand_ ,” Monty whispered. “I… I’m not actually still dead, am I?”

“I don’t think so?”

“But then how are you _here_?”

“I drew a bridge.” I took the paintbrush from behind my ear and stared at it. “I heard… I heard what happened and I knew you were in trouble so I had to come get you.” I met his eyes. “But I was too late.”

Monty swallowed. “I remember that. I remember… my father, he–” He trailed off, hugging himself. “But then what’s all this?” He gestured around. “Did you draw all this?”

“No. Well, sort of. Indirectly, maybe.” When that just confused him further, I explained, “I fell into the river.”

His eyes widened. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine, I just fell off the bridge but got back up and I…” Slowly, puzzle pieces clicked into place. “These flowers and creatures just… came to life. Because of the water. I didn’t have to draw them. I barely even had to think about them. I just…” I turned one palm upward, and a rose blossomed, leaves curling around my fingers.

Monty gaped at it. I gave it to him and he turned it over a few times in his hands, studying it.

“It’s the water from the river,” I said slowly. It made perfect sense. “It’s always brought things to life. And now it’s done the same for you.”

He looked up.

“You were dead. And I kissed you.” I touched two fingers to my lips. I could taste the river water still clinging to it. I almost laughed. “The river brought you back.”

Monty was just blinking at me, mouth hanging open. He struggled for words for a long time. “It… You… Huh.” He frowned, then, “You kissed me?”

The relief that I didn’t lose him promptly turned into embarrassment. I avoided his eyes. “Uh. I… I did. I’m really sorry. I thought you were gone for good and that I’d never got to tell you that… that I…”

A gentle touch lifted my gaze, and I found Monty right in front of me. Expression soft. “That you what?” he whispered.

“That I love you.” It was such a relief to say it out loud. “Monty, I’ve loved you for years.”

For a far too long time, he did nothing but study me. His face was so close to mine and I could feel his breath—his _breath_ , he’s breathing, he’s _alive_ —against my lips. Then he said, barely a whisper, “I love you too.”

And he kissed me.

It took us half a word and then half an hour to pack our bags. The basics: clothes, food, blankets, paint and brushes, my violin, both our collections of letters. We laughed sheepishly when we noticed the other had packed them as well.

The storm had settled when I climbed out onto my windowsill for the last time. It was night—the perfect cover for our escape. Warm lights cast shadows from the rooftops high above. Monty watched me as I drew—the most complicated thing I ever had, on the wooden board of our bridge. Flowers bloomed all around, the river gurgled quietly, butterflies landed next to me.

When it was done, I took a step back and looked at Monty. “Ready?” I asked.

He nodded. “Ready.”

As we brought the boat to life, I didn’t think about what I was leaving behind. I had little regrets—all I could think about was what waited ahead, a life beyond the city and beyond restrictions and above all, a life with Monty.

As a letter of goodbye, I left a single paper plane.

The ocean was even more magnificent than I ever could’ve imagined. The most incredible blue you’d ever seen—it rivaled Monty’s eyes, though he laughed when I told him that.

The trip had been long and perilous, leading beyond our city and through mountains and endless forests, but the second I laid eyes on the brilliant colors of the sea, I knew it’d all been worth it. It stretched out before us, all the way to the horizon, as far as you could see in every direction—nothing but water, and the sunset reflected in it. We took off our shoes and let the waves roll over our toes, enjoying the pull of the wind on our hair, the taste of salt on our lips.

His hand in mine.

The whole world ahead.

We were six, the first time we saw each other.

Eight, when we discovered the river’s secrets.

Thirteen, when I fell in love with him.

Fourteen, when we realized we couldn’t bear to be apart.

Sixteen, when both of our worlds slunk to the space between the walls, to flowers painted on walls, to the sound of each other’s laugh over the gurgling of the river. Clinging to each other as the ground crumbled beneath our feet. Dreaming of something more, something beyond a stifling city. 

And we were eighteen when our lives finally started.


End file.
